


Peel

by HeldAtRansom



Series: Longevity [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Multi, Mystery, Psychological Drama, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeldAtRansom/pseuds/HeldAtRansom
Summary: Posture; verb. pos·ture: behave in a way that is intended to impress or mislead.Whether or not they mean to – and oh, some people mean to – everybody postures. Peel back the skin just enough, however, and you'll find their skeletons, their reasons why.When it comes to Annie Dent, The Joker can't wait to get her under the knife.[Set during TDK. Act I.]





	Peel

_"There are doors that let you in_

_And out_

_But never open_

_And there are trapdoors_

_That you can't come back from."_

Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors – Radiohead

* * *

The streets of The Narrows were an eerie place to be after midnight, even in the outskirts.

Orange-yellow street lamps buzzed and flickered on, then off, then on again – drawing the nighttime insects in, then out, then in again, teasing them. Surrounding buildings emitted no light much unlike the tall skyscraper buildings in the heart of the city. The clouds even seemed darker in the Narrows, the moon deliberately turning its face away from the dregs of Gotham. The recent rainfall had washed away the grime of the day, leaving behind that smell you get only after a particularly nasty storm. That, and smoke. And maybe the tiniest hint of rot.

Stray dogs barked at the air from a far away place, the shriek of sirens could be heard blocks away, the occasional shouts of troubled tenants resounded, and yet Slade Wilson still felt an all encompassing silence as he hurried down Roy Avenue. On this particular night, Slade Wilson found himself alone in his path; no other pedestrians, no vehicles. Just the way he liked it.

The night was muggy and as he found his feet moving faster than his breath could keep up with, Slade wished he could've been able to take off his motorcycle helmet and leather jacket. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, ones falling between his eyes, others trickling down his cheeks to wet his sideburns. The back of his neck was damp, and he could feel the same sweat which had dampened his hair travelling down the middle of his back. His gloved hands itched from the heat. Even his crotch was making him uncomfortable.

He couldn't wait for this to be over, the close heat being only one of the reasons.

Tonight's case was an odd one.

When relaying the necessary information, Boss had left out the most important detail: the target's identity. It wasn't done out of negligence either, no, the Boss was far too sharp to do that; it was because the Boss himself hadn't been told. Whoever had placed the hit – again, another anonymous, voice-changed, public telephone call – had refused to disclose the pertinent detail that is a name, and that alone set Slade on edge. It was red flag #1.

Undertaking this job on the rigid reassurance that the target would be where he was said to be was incredibly risky and, he had to admit, a bit naive. For all he knew, this could be a trap. He accepts the job, turns up at the location, and oops! It's the GCPD!

But the Boss had insisted, and Slade couldn't really fault him: whoever had been willing to shell out $50,000  _before_  the kill had made the bed for the unlucky sod and he and his employer were more than happy to be the ones to tuck them in.

Crossing over and turning right, he headed down towards the closed burger joint at the bottom of the road.

He'd grown up not too far away from the target's location and thus he knew it like the back of his hand, like the pressure points in a neck, like the dismantling of a gun, like the exact centre point of a forehead. As he reached the corner of Marker and Burrough he noted the familiar monorail station at the other end, now boarded up and disused since the terror attack six months back. He'd frequented that station every morning and afternoon to get to and from school.

As he neared the pale yellow door he'd been notified of, he remembered the area dirtier, more unpleasant. Now, there was a marked decrease in graffiti on buildings and, to his surprise, the street lights weren't flickering here; the surrounding sidewalk was relatively clean, except the odd speckle of trampled gum. The nearby trash cans weren't overflowing and he hadn't spotted vermin yet.

All in all, this appeared to be one of the nicer areas of the Narrows now.

In spite of his usual stoic self, he couldn't help but feel a bit prideful that his area was finally getting better.  _Good. Maybe the new kids won't fall into the same trap of a life that I and many others did._

Slade soon became aware that the phantom dogs had ceased barking and the sirens had stopped, prompting him out of his thoughts. A brief glimpse at his watch kick-started the faintest bubbling of familiar dread in his gut.

01.03 a.m.

It was time.

He was finding that, despite his best efforts and his remarkable abilities in his work, being a hitman wasn't getting easier to digest.

Although this was his job, he had to remind himself daily he had only just  _started_  and that being hired to kill someone wasn't something he could grow accustomed to overnight. Yes, he'd been trained for this but he couldn't help thinking he hadn't been entirely  _prepared_  for this.

Fishing in his pockets, he retrieved the key he'd been given by the Boss and unlocked the door in front of him. Unlike his apartment complex, this one had no front area, no communal area. Just a wall of lockers for mail to his right, a wall to his left, and stairs ahead of him. So up he went.

He climbed the stairs two at a time easily with his long legs and reached the eighth floor in less than two minutes. As he reached the last step, he felt whatever sweat had been collecting at the waistband of his jeans run down his legs as his legs made the stretch. He shuddered at the gross sensation and almost gagged out loud. If he hadn't been on a timed watch, he wouldn't have rushed the stairs. Another shudder moved through him before he finally got his bearings.

A quick pat on his pockets – jacket, trousers, inside – reassured him his weapons were still there. Another glance around and – nope, again no security cameras. Odd. In a place like the Narrows he would have thought security would be of the utmost importance. Then again, judging by the relatively clean streets perhaps there wasn't that much crime in this area, not that much to be worried about or afraid of.

An arrogant and wrong decision.

He approached the hallway cautiously, careful to lighten his footsteps and minimise his body movements.

' _No noise, even if it's late and the place is dead. I don't want some fuckin' broad tellin' the cops she was woken up by some commotion down the hall.'_

That's what the Boss had said. And what Boss said, went.

Eventually, he slowed to a stop in front of a greyed-white door reading '804'. The unmistakable blare of a television set could be heard and once again he glanced around him. No-one. Good. Out of his pockets, he took a 9mm Beretta, a suppressor, and a full magazine. He watched around him as he fixed on the suppressor and loaded the magazine. A quick check of the chamber and he was good to go.

Breathing in deeply, he lifted his free hand and gave three loud knocks on the door.

Hey, a hit is still a hit even if there's been no break in.

The television set droned on at the same volume, leading Slade to believe the unlucky bastard was either deaf or asleep.

He waited a few moments more before giving a sigh.

Of course, this wasn't going to be an easy job. It never was when he wanted it to be.

But before he gave up all restraint and patience and opened relentless fire on the door in front of him, before he allowed the obstacle course of a kill to begin, he decided to try the easy route – he reached out and grabbed the door knob.

He twisted.

It turned.

And with a very faint click, the door popped open.

* * *

**_Earlier that day_ **

The way Rachel looked at Harvey as she fixed his tie made him smile.

He guessed it was the hint of mockery that hid just behind her eyes which made him happy, content. He loved that about her: how she refused to take him seriously, how her response to most things he said was sarcasm or dry wit. Kept him down to earth. Kept him humble. There were times when a comment she'd make would take him completely by surprise, but more often than not he could predict when she was about to knock him down a few pegs. At that moment, he sensed she was about to do just that.

"I'm almost  _embarrassed_  for you, Harvey. A man of your age and stature should be able to sort his own tie."

Her voice was exactly the way he had imagined it to be and she was giving him  _that_  smirk. Harvey raised his eyebrows at her but couldn't stop the boyish grin from growing on his face.

"Hey, I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds these nooses hard to figure out."

Rachel snorted and let go of his tie. She patted the shoulders of his suit jacket, smiling at him. Just as she opened her mouth to let out another remark, Harvey grasped her hands and brought them to his mouth. He kissed them gently silencing her immediately, which, in turn, made him smile against her fingers. She could mock him all she wanted later.

Harvey pulled his head and hands away to check his watch. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips and he glanced at her. "If we don't get a move on, I'm going to be in some serious trouble." Rachel nodded and he watched as she went over to the bedside table on her side of the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the large bed, he dragged his shoes over and placed one foot in one shoe. Suddenly, a fresh, floral aroma entered his nostrils, one he'd never smelled before, and he turned his head in his girlfriend's direction – she was dabbing liquid from a small glass bottle onto her wrists and neck.

"Hey," her blue-grey eyes met his and Harvey saw she was already smirking at him. Here we go. "Want me to tie your shoelaces as well?"

There it was. Oh, how he loved her.

Staring at her blankly before rolling his eyes, he cleared his throat.

"Is that a new perfume? It doesn't smell like any of the ones I've bought you."

Rachel gave him a funny look as she put the bottle back into the drawer of the bedside table.

"Uh, yeah, Harv. It's the one your cousin sent for my birthday back in April."

Harvey shrugged apologetically and shook his head.

"You've never worn it before, how was I supposed to know?"

She was looking at him as if she was waiting for something, her eyes searching his. For what though, Harvey didn't know. And if he stopped to care, they'd end up late.

Rachel sighed and stood, walking over to where her suit jacket and bag laid on the lone chair in the corner.

Harvey knew that sigh, although not the reason behind it this time, and so he stood after putting his shoes on. Following her, he linked his arms around her waist and rested his chin in the nook of her shoulder. Breathing in deeply and slightly nuzzling her hair, he gently patted her stomach and quirked his lips in a smirk of his own.

"Remind me to thank her some time for having  _exquisite_  taste."

Harvey returned to his apartment that night later than he had wanted to, drained and exhausted. A day full of meetings, case prep, and endless scanning and studying of documents tended to tire him out and to top it all off, he'd  _still_  have to stay up late to finish his notes for the Maroni case tomorrow.

Opening his apartment door, Harvey stepped inside and gently closed it behind him.

"Rachel?" He called out, placing his briefcase on the open-plan kitchen counter.

With a yawn, he shuffled towards the fridge and retrieved a half-opened carton of orange juice – no pith – and slugged half the contents. "Rachel?" He asked his apartment once again, but this time froze when he heard the murmuring of not one but two female voices. One was undoubtedly Rachel's; the other he couldn't make out. It seemed vaguely familiar, stirring long-dormant memories in his mind, but it differed slightly to the one he heard in his head.

"Harvey's home, let's go tell him you're here."

Intrigued, Harvey returned the orange juice to the fridge and wiped his hands on his suit pants, waiting for the mystery guest to reveal themselves. With eyebrows raised, Harvey watched as Rachel and a tall, lithe blonde girl entered into the open-plan kitchen. Eyes stuck on the latter, his lips parted in shock as he found himself seeing his cousin in person for the first time in ten years.

The cousin who had once been so small that perching on Harvey's shoulders had been no problem whatsoever, the cousin who had always smiled her big gap-toothed grin at him with no embarrassment, the cousin who had never been afraid nor ashamed to talk to him or tell him what for, the cousin he'd made no effort to keep in contact with after an argument with her father – that girl was now here in Gotham, somehow. Standing just a couple inches shorter than him, her once short, choppy hair was now long and hung in the loose curls she'd been born with. Her smile was still wide, though no longer gap-toothed. Her once-confident, almost brazen presence had been replaced with a cautious, almost awkward stance, reminding Harvey of a teenager coming to terms with an overnight growth spurt. She swayed slightly, causing her navy skirt to sway against her knees.

What a difference ten years had made.

"Annie."

The blonde smiled sheepishly at her older cousin and stepped forward, reaching out to him with a delicate hand.

"Hi, Harvey."

* * *

**_The Narrows: 01.06 a.m._ **

Slade couldn't believe it when the door opened away from him.

Regardless of how well this area seemed to be doing, leaving your own front door open in the Narrows was moronic and downright suicidal.

It was red flag #2.

Slade had been trained to prepare for more than one scenario and the cold, bony fingers of paranoia and suspicion crawled up his spine as a thought dawned on him: what if the door had been left open on purpose? His mind went back to the thought of cops. The likelihood of them waiting for him on the other side of the door was increasing every second he remained outside the apartment and he couldn't wait any longer; his anxiety would become too much.

If they were there, he'd open fire and, hopefully, they would return it. That way, he'd never have to talk.

Bracing himself and clearing his head the best he could, he pushed the door and stepped in.

When his foot squelched, he wished he hadn't.

An astounding smell of liquor, stale smoke, and expired food enveloped him, exacerbated by the heat due to the lack of air-conditioning, and he had to stop himself from vomiting as he shut the door behind him.

Resting on the door, he breathed in and out through his mouth as the heat clung to him like a damp sheet, once wiping away fresh sweat from under his helmet and coming away with the grime under his fingernails.

The TV was booming, the noise of struggle and violence ricocheting around him, relentless in its pursuit of a victim.

This apartment was a complete bombardment to the senses; the worst he'd ever encountered.

It felt like he'd stepped into the very pits of Hell itself.

It felt like he'd need to singe himself with bleach to shed the skin that experienced this.

A few more deep breaths in, from his position he surveyed the apartment.

A wall to his left, the hallway ahead of him, and to his right an open door into a tiny bathroom, overhead light on, no-one inside. From his first look, it appeared clean enough except for the mold climbing its way up the tiles from the bath. And the damp on the ceiling. And the layer of filth on the mirror. And the scum around the toilet basin.

Wrinkling his nose he turned away and started his descent into the main area, padding down the sticky, damp carpet.

The wall to his left was bare and peeling, and the only sign of life from it was a small drawing he would have missed had the bathroom light not been on. Drawn in yellow, pink, and blue crayon, at around three feet high, was a little girl holding the hand of a much taller man. At their feet laid an orange and black cat of some sort, drawn bigger than the little girl. Almost as if it was like a pet tiger.

Had he been in another mindset, Slade liked to think he would have smiled at the childish cartoon.

But, in fact, it raised red flag #3 for him.

He had signed up to kill an adult. Now there was the possibility that a young child might be involved.

He didn't like this case at all and he would be lying if he said he ever had.

Following the hall, he finally reached his destination.

It was set up open-plan.

A living area was set up in the middle of the room; a doorway leading to what Slade assumed would be a bedroom was further away from him on the right. To his immediate right on the other side of the bathroom wall was a kitchenette unit. In the area separating carpet from linoleum was a two-seater table, with only one chair.

Focusing back on the living area, he noted the curtains were closed over the only window in the room and the source of light came from the tiny, old television set. On either side of the set nestled in amongst newspapers, discarded envelopes, and junk mail were two expensive black speakers, the source of the fracas. Once he'd finished with the target, Slade owed it to his own ears to take out the wretched set too.

In front of the television, facing away from him, was a tattered couch, the colour he couldn't discern in the available light. There were tears down its back, a spring poking out of one, and the armrest's cushion had detached itself completely, hanging over the edge like a limp arm. Empty bottles and crushed cans were scattered around nearby like one would place candles in preparation for a Big Night.

Slade edged forward, careful to avoid any of the mess he found himself sinking in, around the back of the couch and away from the kitchenette.

Standing at one end of the couch, an almost sardonic smile stretched its way across his face as he found just who he was looking for.

Laid before him in an uncomfortable-looking position was a man Slade estimated to be in his 50s, dressed in an off-white t-shirt and dirty grey long johns. His arms were underneath his head, elbows pointing to the ceiling, and his legs were stretched out, bare feet dangling over the seat. A blooming beer-belly had popped out from under the t-shirt and an opened packet of Skittles rested there like an obedient cat.

The bright yellow-blonde hair of the cartoon man was a stark contrast to the matted, greying mess on this man's head before him. In fact, the entire drawing was a contrast to this person. The cartoon had been a younger man, suggesting either that it hadn't been done recently or it was of someone else. Thank God for that.

The man's eyes were closed and the way the belly rhythmically heaved up and down informed Slade he was sound asleep. Good.

Lifting his gun, he prepared to aim but stopped halfway drawn. He still didn't know who he was.

Sure, he'd killed strangers before – it was part of his job description – but he'd always known who they were on a factual level. Who said this guy could be different? What gave him the right?

In spite of his instructions, he decided to nose around a bit longer.

Reaching below him, he gingerly lifted one of the torn pieces of junk-mail hoping one of his questions would be answered.

Mr. O D– the paper was ripped and missing a large chunk.

He lifted another – same thing. Then another – same. Another – same.

With eyebrows drawn, he looked back at the man.  _Just who are you, Mr. O D?_

Bedroom it was.

It was much like the other rooms, a standard set up. A queen bed in the middle, one bedside table on the right side, and a small chest of drawers opposite the bed with three photo-frames perched on top.

Moving into the room, he went straight to the bedside table and tipped out the drawer. All that came of that was three untwisted paper clips, a keychain, a flyer for a place called Benny's Burgers, and six cigarette butts.

Slade almost growled out of frustration. It had never been this difficult to discover someone's identity.

The chest of drawers was the last stop before he lost his temper and patience completely.

A quick peek out of the door reassured him Mr. O D was still sleeping and he went back to the matter at hand.

Just as he was about to open the first drawer, the photo-frames caught his attention properly for the first time and he faltered.

The first was a fairly large photo. Bright in colour, a younger version of the man on the couch – oh, yes, it was him – was stood outside a church, dressed in a sharp, black tuxedo. Stood beside him, one hand in his, the other clutching a bouquet of red roses was quite the beauty wearing a sleeved, white wedding dress. Both appeared to be laughing – him looking at her, her looking just above the camera – and confetti drifted down around them. It was a sweet photo, sure, but it didn't tell him anything he wanted.

The next one was smaller, in a square frame, and Slade recognised the little girl in the photo to be the little cartoon girl from the wall. She was sat in a swing, a navy pinafore dress poking out around her legs, her almost-platinum blonde hair hung in curls around her shoulders, a big gap-toothed grin on her face. Despite himself, he couldn't help but find her cute. Upon closer inspection to the bottom right-hand corner, he saw the timestamp: 17.08.1991.  _Well. At least I won't have to deal with any children tonight._

With a sigh, he returned that frame back to its place and reached for the last one, expecting the same conclusion as the others.

Yet, as his eyes roved over Mr. O D on the left then onto the younger, blond man beside him, Slade felt his heart skip a beat.

Holding Mr. O D's hand in a firm handshake with one and a decorated scroll in the other, dressed up in graduation garb – hat and all – stood a fresh-faced Harvey Dent.

Yeah, Slade  _definitely_  hadn't been prepared for this.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been inside my head since 2008.
> 
> I tried writing it back then but it didn't go as planned because it wasn't planned. Heat of the moment fanfictions can work for some authors, but I lacked the potential and drive at that time to continue and develop it. Now, I think I've finally grasped it.
> 
> In those nine years, it's undergone several changes in plot, direction, tone etc. I've changed my OC's background numerous times. I've added and removed characters here and there. I've changed the title more times than I can count, and I will undoubtedly be struck with new names for it even after I've posted it. It's been an arduous process mapping the ins and outs and connecting the ties, but I'm there.
> 
> Although I fear I may be too late in capturing an audience due to the stretch of time between TDK and this, I'm sure you'll know how it is once a seed is planted – you can't stop thinking about it and it grows. Currently, I have certain scenes from what might be the sequel open and almost finished – my thought process jumps around that much.  
> I'd like to note that this story will take place during TDK; this first chapter is set the night before Maroni's court date. However, I don't plan on detailing every little thing that happens in the movie because, well, that's boring.
> 
> This story will mostly follow Annie, the young woman who more or less cameoed in this, and will explore the themes of TDK applicable to her. Slade Wilson will also be followed to a lesser extent, as well as the Boss (and just who might they be?). Oh, and of course: the Joker will be featuring heavily in this. Duh.
> 
> I was going to say what else had inspired this other than the Batman franchise but it gave far too much away about what's to come. Soooo, you'll just have to wait and see.


End file.
